Welcome to Night Vale: The Museum
by Funkatron7
Summary: An episode of Night Vale Community Radio wherein Cecil reports on the grand opening of the new Night Vale Art History Museum and Art Gallery (as well as other goings on in and around town).


**Hello everyone. I hope you enjoy this story. I tried to keep to the comedy style of the actual show as well as I could. I welcome any and all feedback :)**

**No Warnings.**

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><p>Sit in the chair. Not that chair, the other chair. The chair we picked together. Welcome to Night Vale.<p>

I know you're all excited to hear about this, listeners. Yesterday was the grand opening of the Night Vale Art History Museum and Art Gallery, built to showcase artworks from around the world as well as some pieces crafted by local talents. The museum is located downtown, one block away from City Hall and across from Big Rico's Pizza. Personally I'm thrilled. I've always felt that this town, great though it is, was lacking a bit in the cultural department. Sure we have great architecture, like the mysterious spires and monoliths that appear and disappear from time to time, but apart from that there aren't any noteworthy cultural installations for all citizens to enjoy. I'm sure with this new art museum and gallery we can really reinvigorate our town's creative side.

Mayor Pamela Winchell, in an emergency press conference held this morning, urged citizens to support the new museum. She did so by holding up a painting of three giraffes attempting to play an accordion which, judging by the broken frame and the Mayor's breathless panting, appeared to have been removed from the museum violently and without permission. 'Look at these giraffes' she said, to a crowd of reporters who had gone slack-jawed with admiration for the impeccably crafted artwork being dangled in front of them. 'Look at them. LOOK AT THEM! Have you ever seen something so adorable? This is the kind of art this city needs more of.' The Mayor ended the emergency press conference by flinging the painting into the crowd and running away as the reporters scrambled to get it, beating each other with cameras and strangling their fellow journalists with microphone cable to lessen the competition.

Carlos took me to the museum yesterday for our four-month anniversary date. I can't believe it's been that long already. The time has just flown by in what, Carlos assures me, is a speed vastly irregular to the progression of time anywhere outside of Night Vale in the known universe.

First we went to the history section, which had all the really famous artworks in it, like Picasso's 'Giraffes Playing Tennis' and Da Vinci's 'Giraffe driving a 2004 Nissan sedan'. I picked up an audio guide, but it didn't provide me with much information about the exhibits. Or any information at all really. It was mostly just instructions on how to cook a blueberry panna cotta, told through interpretive dance. The art was still interesting to look at and contemplate, but I think a bit more background would have been helpful. Carlos only knew as much as I did about the exhibits, he's not really that into art. He suggested we go to the museum because he knows I like to look at art or, at least, sit in silence while pondering the foolish idea of creating something useless and impermanent. Oh, isn't he just the biggest cutie. There were a lot of reporters there to spread word about the museum as well. A LOT of reporters. More reporters than I thought this town even had. I was glad to see that the museum was already so popular, but they were kind of in the way of a lot of the paintings. Oh well.

I brought back a print of Rembrandt's 'Giraffes exploring an active volcano' that I bought at the gift shop. I'm not sure where I put it though… Oh, our new intern Geoffrey has it. That reminds me; everyone say hello to Geoffrey. He just started his internship yesterday to help him explore career options while studying journalism at Night Vale Community College. I can see him through the window from here; he's in the other room, just staring at the print. I wish I could show it to you, Night Vale. It's really interesting. Geoffrey certainly seems to be interested in it. He's not blinking. Looks like our station has a new art buff. So, on behalf of Night Vale I would like to wish Geoffrey good luck throughout his time here and his future journalism career. Who knows, Geoffrey, one day it might be you dodging burning shrapnel and tear gas canisters at one of the Mayor's emergency press conferences. Isn't that right, Geoffrey?

…Geoffrey?

… He probably heard me.

Now it's time for some other news from in and around Night Vale.

The Night Vale Business Association has announced this week that they plan to construct a new water slide at the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, in the hopes that this will generate interest in the waterfront and boost popularity. This comes as a surprise, considering that the Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area was declared 'non-existent' by the same Night Vale Business Association just weeks ago.

The head of the Night Vale Business Association had this to say: 'Any buildings you currently see at the site of the alleged Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area are still just hallucinations. However if, in a few months' time, you happen to see a working waterslide with a lot of people sliding down it, splashing in the water and having a great time, then that won't be a hallucination. And neither will the waterfront businesses around it. Unless the waterslide is unpopular, in which case it doesn't exist and never did. And we didn't tell you about it'. They ended the meeting with a list of other, increasingly specific scenarios in which the new water slide, and the entire Harbour and Waterfront Recreation Area by extension, may or may not exist.

Anyway, back to my date with Carlos- I mean, um, my report on the new Night Vale Art History museum and Art Gallery. After we finished looking at the historical paintings, nine-tenths of which dealt with the subject of giraffes, we went to look at the sculptures and other, non-two-dimensional works. This section was much more filled in than the other sections of the museum, in that the entire room was filled with a single, solid block of marble. The audio guide, after instructing me to simmer my blueberry syrup mixture until it thickens, informed me that the enormous marble structure represents togetherness. Now isn't that intriguing? I wanted to get a closer look but the way was being blocked off by a group of reporters, who had pressed themselves against the marble block and were moaning softly. How rude.

After that, we moved on from the art history section to the local, modern artworks. I must say, Carlos and I agreed that the gallery of local artworks was really quite impressive. I know us Nightvalians have a knack for alternative means of expression, primarily due to the ban on writing utensils, but I had no idea there were so many people in this town who enjoyed painting. The exhibits in here mostly featured giraffes as well. I saw Old Woman Josie from down at the car lot bring in a painting she'd made of some eight-feet tall glowing figures. The curator took it and, after studying it briefly to determine if it contained any giraffes (which it didn't), tore it to shreds. Oh, but you know how tough critics can be; am I right, Night Vale? I wish I could tell you more about the local artworks but, again, this room was just swamped with reporters. Some were weeping softly, others were twitching with rage. Maybe opening day wasn't the best time to look at the museum. It's not Carlos's fault, I had no idea there would be this much interest in the museum either. Oh well, we'll just have to go back another day.

And now a word from our sponsors:

You wake up. The pillow under your head feels unusually cold. Cold, like your face hadn't even been laying on it. You sit up. Your wife isn't in bed with you. She must have gotten up early this morning. You swing your legs off the side of the bed and stand up. Your legs suddenly feel weak, as though you've been wandering an endless desert for days and days at a time. You put on your bathrobe, but even that slight action makes you feel faint, so you walk to the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face. But, when you turn on the cold tap the water is icy cold. In fact, it's even colder than that. Colder than any water has business being. You try the hot tap, but the same thing happens. You try the shower, but the same thing happens. You try to check the toilet, but the lid has iced shut. You suddenly become aware of your breath fogging in front of you. You start to shiver. You call out to your wife, but there is no answer from downstairs. You make your ways to the stairs, but on the way you find yourself trudging through thick snow. The walk to the stairs takes days. Descending the stairs takes longer. You inspect the icy, snowed under kitchen, but your wife is nowhere to be found. You check the living room, but your wife is nowhere to be found. You check the laundry, but your wife is nowhere to be found. You trudge through wet, knee-deep snow to reach the front door, but the handle won't turn. You peer out the window above the door and see a warm, summery suburban street. Your wife is outside, playing with your two children. They wave to you, and beckon you to come outside, but you're trapped in this desolate, frozen wasteland. You try the knob again, desperately grasping it and trying to turn it with all your might but to no avail! YOU TRY TO PUNCH THROUGH THE WINDOW, BUT YOU ARE NOW TOO WEAK TO EVEN LIFT YOUR OWN ARM! Dejected, exhausted, defeated, you fall to the floor, allowing the damp, white snow to pile above your head and consume you, inch by frozen, agonising inch.

Starbucks. Try a Vanilla Frappuccino today.

I'm not sure how to explain it, Night Vale, but, thanks to Carlos and his research on reporters, we now know that the exhibits in the new Night Vale Art History Museum and Art Gallery appear to have an unusual, captivating effect on them. Whenever a reporter, or a journalist working in a similar discipline, sees a painting, sculpture or other type of artwork they can do nothing but stare at it. They cease responding to any external stimuli, including sound, flashing lights or minor amputations. Now, I know what you're thinking, Night Vale, and you don't have to worry. I'm really more of a news presenter than a reporter, so the art isn't affecting me. Maybe Geoffrey knows some more about this. Where is he anyw- oh, he's still standing in the other room, starting at that print I brought in. He's not moving either. Oh dear. We'll keep you updated on that if any of our reporters are able to tear themselves from their mental prisons.

Just a reminder, Night Vale: this week there is no weather. None at all. The sky has no particular features that can be described. The air has no temperature. It's still there; it's just neither hot nor cold (though it may actually be both). The wind is gone, and there's no rain, snow, hail or condensation to speak of. The City Council assures us that the weather will return at some point, but we don't know when just yet. In the meantime, maybe you could try creating your own weather at home? I'm sure I don't need to remind you how. More on the weather situation when, or if, it develops.

I'm afraid I have sad news, listeners. During the last report I received word that the new Night Vale Art History Museum and Art Gallery has been torn down by a mob of frantic journalists and reporters, whose placid, slack-jawed obsession with art suddenly turned into a violent frenzy as they ripped paintings from walls and beat each other with boom mikes in order to be as close to the art as possible. All of the pieces on display were destroyed in the ensuing fire and carnage, including the twelve feet by ten feet by eight feet solid marble rectangular sculpture of togetherness.

As well as the destruction of our once beloved art museum over 43 citizens lost their lives, 38 of whom were reporters. And so, it is with a heavy heart that I must report the passing of Station Intern Geoffrey. On behalf of the surviving staff of Night Vale Community Radio, we will miss you. For now. Until you regenerate, as all reporters eventually do. Although, I'm not actually sure if that rule applies to interns. I guess we'll find out eventually.

We must also say farewell to the new Night Vale Art History Museum and Art Gallery. I see now that paintings and sculptures are extremely dangerous, just like books and questioning authority, and should be avoided at all costs. Hopefully that's a lesson we can all take to heart to prevent this tragedy from ever reoccurring.

Stay tuned for that feeling you get when you're not quite sure if you remembered to lock the front door of the house when you left for work this morning. And, as always: goodnight, Night Vale.


End file.
